While the Orchestra Breathes Fitfully
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Zachariah makes one last attempt to change Castiel’s mind. Inspired by The Conqueror Worm, by Edgar Allan Poe.


Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and I most certainly do not own The Conqueror Worm, a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.

Summary: Zachariah makes one last attempt to change Castiel's mind. Inspired by The Conqueror Worm, by Edgar Allan Poe.

_While the Orchestra Breathes Fitfully_

The house of the theatre is empty, the soft burgundy seats gone ashen under a thick coat of dust. Alone he watches the action on stage, watches the spinning, swirling fog that imitates the shape of a globe.

(_I arranged some entertainment for you_, Zachariah had said. _Plays are meant to make you think, Castiel. I pray that this one does_.)

Bipeds-- humans-- in their everyday costumes pace the stage in an endless trump without properly touching the wooden panels. He recognizes hundreds, thousands of faces, pasted on bodies that limp and teeter as they march.

(_I want you to become better acquainted with the side you've chosen. Meet their true enemy. You can still change your mind_.)

He seems Sam Winchester, and Chuck Shurley, and others with a role to play in the final battle. They seem unconcerned with that now; they just keep moving, always forward, deliberate and choreographed, as though dancing, but no smiles grace their faces. The music of the invisible orchestra sounds of rain and wind and leaves falling. Castiel can't take his eyes away.

And Dean. Of course. Who else could be at the center of the storm? He is the only player, the only person, who breaks the fourth wall, who looks at Castiel, and his lips are saying something the angel can't quite make out.

(_See, humans have more to worry about than Heaven and Hell and us and them. It doesn't matter in the end because in the end they're all going to die. One way or another_.)

"No," Castiel whispers.

A final character has come onstage who isn't God and isn't the Devil and isn't much of a presence at all, but it's frightening in its simplicity. Long and smooth and red and slow, it creeps from the wings towards the storm, towards the center. Towards Dean.

Castiel could leave. Zachariah has no control over him. He could leave and run and never look back but he doesn't, because he can't climb up onto the stage, can't save Dean and the humans waiting there, pacing there, playing there. So what else matters?

The worm inches along. On stage no one seems to see it save Dean. And no one, not even Dean, reacts. The worm encounters the first human, a nameless, faceless woman, and eats her. Dean looks at Castiel and shrugs. Castiel's stomach clenches.

(_In the end they're all going to die_, Zachariah whispered. _You can't save a single one of them, and yet this is still the choice you make_?)

The worm eats Bobby Singer and the worm eats Chuck Shurly and the worm eats Sam Winchester. Dean's lips are still moving but no sound is emerging. Castiel's fingers grip the armrests.

_And you still you still you still are choosing this side?_ _Still?_ "Still?"

"Yes," Castiel whispers, and Zachariah settles down in the seat next to him, to watch the action with a smile on his face. The worm is inches from Dean now. He opens his mouth, teeth dripping blood. It stains the wooden panels of the stage, and Dean looks up at Castiel one last time, and smiles goodbye. Time freezes on his perfect lips, his quiet bravery, and the piercing honesty in his eyes that is half-hidden as he winks.

Castiel closes his eyes. When they open, the stage is deserted.

"And the angels, all pallid and wan/ uprising, unveiling, affirm/ that the play is the tragedy 'Man'/ and its hero the Conqueror Worm."

Castiel swings his hands out at the slimy sound of the voice in his ear, but he hits nothing but air. The swooshing sound echoes through the empty playhouse, and yet his tears are so quiet that even in the utter silence they can't be heard.

Castiel stands mechanically from his seat, files down the steps, past the rows and to the stage, and climbs up onto it. There is nothing, nothing to memorialize the presence of the players, save his memory of the clotted, cloying blood.

It is a dream, a terrible image put into his head by a former ally, but Castiel can't shake free of it. He lowers himself gently to the stage floor, looking out into the empty house, blinded, though the stage lights are low.

_Still still still this is your choice?_

"Yes," Castiel whispers. And once he has heard his own voice, he comes to recognize the sound of his sobbing.

Note on the poem: First of all, for those not familiar with the poem, I suggest you check it out (http://www. ). For those who don't feel like putting that much effort in, a summary: the poem recounts a group of angels going to see a play which shows humans going about their daily lives until finally, Death, the ultimate force-- the Conqueror Worm-- comes onstage and kills them all. The angels leave weeping, knowing that there's nothing even they can do to stop this. I've recently been rereading Poe and when I came across this, which I hadn't read in years, it reminded me so strongly of Castiel that I had to write this. Thanks for reading!


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